Burn My Wings Black
by thatwriterwhocan'tstop
Summary: John is Sherlock's guardian angel, as Sherlock grows up and realises he is being protected by an unseen force he begins to behave more dangerously to find out what that force is. Should John disguise himself as a human, he will lose his place in the heavens. But seeing Sherlock's suicidal behaviour forces his hand. Keeping his true form a secret will be impossible. Almost. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I don't own the Sherlock Holmes stuff, and this is obviously an AU so apologies for any major OOC-ness. Enjoy! **

When Sherlock Holmes was born, a new angel joined the 500th Earthly Protectors Regiment, in the service of the Heavenly Father. The new angel took the name given to him by the Father, John. John was like every other new angel in his regiment, tall, pale, with radiant wings of elegant white feathers, long white hair and golden eyes. His first assignment was to ascertain his charge's health; a glance through his second sight told him that Sherlock Holmes was a healthy baby, a little undersized, but properly formed. What made him interesting was his already increased brain activity that showed he would develop much more quickly than the other thousands of babies that had been in the same moment as he had.

Assignment complete, John logged it into his new pocket book. Angels don't write, they look at a page and push memory segments onto the page to record them accurately. Now that he had established himself as a guardian, John looked into the mirror he had thought of. Every new angel first thinks of a mirror – they want an identity. Looking around at other new recruits, John blanched a little. Pink floor length hair, shimmering golden robes, red tipped wings, blue patterns swirled onto skin… It was painful to his unassuming silver eyes. John looked into the mirror and cut several feet of his hair off so that it brushed against his calves when he walked, rather than dragging behind him. He visualised a neutral sandy colour, and watched as it spread from his roots to the tips of his hair. He did not want to look special, so he decided that his eyes would change to whatever colour most comforted whoever was looking into them. Rather than a gown, which tickled his feet, he looked into his second sight at what the people currently surrounding Sherlock were wearing. The shirts would irritate his wings, and those shoes were unsightly, but the dark casual trousers of a man who had just walked past Sherlock's room caught John's eye. He resumed first sight, and looked down at the dark blue formal slim jeans he was now wearing, the cold did not affect him, and they were pleasantly normal against his skin. Now all he could do was try and get along with the other angels in his regiment, and keep an eye on Sherlock's development.

The first time he interferes in Sherlock's life is when he is three, and has discovered how to climb onto the roof of the manor. John finds himself wishing that young Sherlock was still preoccupied with rolling around on the grass and pretending to be a bee, but the development does not surprise him, having learnt to use fluent sentences by the time he was two, and walking by his first birthday. He shakes himself from the recollections, and glides over to where Sherlock is now sat on the edge of the roof swinging his legs and reciting his times tables out loud. He does not get to seven times eight. He falls.

John jumps into action, turning off Sherlock's consciousness, catching him and lowering him gently to the floor. When Sherlock wakes up, he will remember being on the roof, but he will not remember how he came to be in his bed. John makes a mental memo to Mycroft's angel to ask him to plant an image of Sherlock falling off a low branch of the tree outside his bedroom window in order for the minor injuries to make sense to the young boys. It would be too suspicious for Sherlock to wake up unscathed; John needs him to associate the roof with Not Good and Danger.

The next time John is required to intervene, Sherlock is five, and John really doesn't understand just how he was allowed a sword in the first place. Who has swords these days anyway? Shaking his head in disbelief, he manages to change the gash on Sherlock's leg to a minor cut, but of course the noise ensuing from the small boy increase to the point that nanny number 6 carries him from the garden to the play room and settles him with a cup of tea and a murder mystery Mycroft had written for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I ahem may be writing this with little to no plan… It will all be ok in the end, promise :D And sorry for the delay, my life has been incredibly hectic! Reviews would be lovely, enjoy!**

It was inevitable that Sherlock would figure something out that something was going on; he could run out into the main road at the end of Baker Street and no cars would hit him, suspects who never miss their mark would miraculously do exactly that. For a man like Holmes, a puzzle that could not be solved became a challenge.

For John, the challenge was making everything look like chance. Holmes' recklessness was already becoming a major problem. No matter how many times he explained to the heavenly council about Sherlock's unprecedented intellect, they would not allow him extra help. John had often worried about his mischievous consulting detective being lonely, but now it seemed that he himself was the one who was truly alone.

For Sherlock, this should have been a doddle. It was obviously an impulsive murder; all he needed to do know was to wait for the perpetrator to respond to the email he had sent, and the Met would have their woman. She was due to arrive at any moment, believing that she was going to get her ring back, unsuspecting that Holmes would also be getting her arrested.

It should have been simple; how was he to know that a woman who had poisoned her ex-fiancé would bring a knife with her? He easily avoided her advances using his knowledge of Baritsu, but somehow she caught hold of him and plunged the short blade into his side. Holmes yelled in frustration – this was not supposed to happen. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, clutching his hands to the gash. When he opened them again, the woman was gone. He could hear her heels clacking as she ran down the street, away from Holmes, and away from any chance of her being caught.

John watched on in horror – there was no way he could help Holmes while he was alone in his flat until he passed out, by which point it might even be too late for heavenly intervention… If only he could appear as a human. As soon as John pushed that thought from his mind, he saw Sherlock pushing himself down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, desperately trying to follow the murderess. It was almost enough to make up his mind there and then.

He could assume a human appearance, collapse Holmes into his arms and heal him, then take him to safety and leave without a trace. Holmes would not suspect something out of the ordinary, just a case of good citizenship saving his life.

And yet, the price of such a feat was so high… He stroked his wings thoughtfully. They would lose their white heavenly radiance; an outcast of the Lord can never be mistaken for a pure angel of the light, no, outcasts must go through untenable pain while their betrayal burnt their wings black. But that was not all that he would lose; the Lord's garden would be closed to him forever. His pure form would no longer be that of a robed angel, instead be cursed with wild black hair, black eyes, black wings. Black as a demon's soul, for he would become something barely better than a demon.

It was the sight of Sherlock laying on his front in the middle of the pavement that made his decision. John's notebook was glowing scarlet, alerting him to the danger of the situation the man in his care was in. With a deep breath, an apology to his Lord, and a silent prayer; John leapt through the gates of heaven.

An agonised scream tore from his lips and his wings began to burn in the free fall through the dimensions towards Earth. His radiance dimmed and went out altogether, to be replaced by a dark light around him, marking him as an outcast. His wings burned and flaked into boiling hot ash, it clung to his skin, heightening the searing pain emanating from his back until John thought he would surely cease to exist. With a final burst of soul wrenching pain, black wings ripped through the skin of his back, his eyes darkened and black hair rippled down the base of his spine.

John stretched his wings experimentally, they ached, but slowed his fall enough to allow him to bind his almost demonic (not quite, he reminded himself.) appearance inside of the human appearance he would assume now that he had become an Earth dweller.

The people of Baker Street noticed nothing out of the ordinary. One minute they were wondering what to do with the man who lay bleeding out into the street while the ambulance came, the next, they watched as a man with a limp called himself a doctor and knelt next to the still form of Sherlock Holmes. They did not notice that his eyes were black as coal, or that when he touched the wounded man a faint blue glow shimmered from the palms of his hands.

John of 500th Earthly Protectors regiment became Dr John Watson, ex-military doctor to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. The challenge now would be to stay by Holmes' side, and keep his true form buried deep within.


End file.
